Wings Where We Had Shoulders
by LordsofLazarus
Summary: Angels had always been watching over Dean, despite how much he thought that it was total bullcrap. Even so many years later, when Dean was damned and sent to Hell, the angels were still watching… (set immediately before Season 4)
1. Light and Smoke

_"Death makes angels of us all  
and gives us wings where we had shoulders  
smooth as ravens' claws._"

**- Jim Morrison**

Angels had always been watching over Dean, despite how much he thought that it was total bullcrap. Even so many years later, when Dean was damned and sent to Hell, the angels were still watching…

It started when he was three and his mother pulled a coat out of the closet in his room. The wooden door was pulled open and his mother smiled at him as she turned around, a warm jacket in her hands. Dean's legs swung from the bed, his shoes knocking against the bed posts. His eyes were focused on the dark expanse of his closet, and the shimmering little light in the top corner.

His attention was pulled away as his mother drew closer to him and tugged the coat around him, running her fingers through his hair and kissing the top of his head. Dean remembered smiling at that, and watching as his mother left the room, going into the nursery to tend to the squalling baby Sam.

Dean's feet hit the floor with a loud thump and he looked up, back at the closet once more. The light was gone. He didn't think much of it, deciding instead to run outside of the house and play until dark, chasing shadows in the dusky yard until his father finally returned home…

The second time it happened was five years later. Their mom had died in a house fire, and Dad had never been the same since. He went out at night, much more frequently, coming back limping or worse. Dean was eight and Sammy was four, the younger brother playing the bother game, wanting to read a book with Dean.

The older boy scoffed, thumping up the steps to his room, his little brother pouting along behind him. Dean slammed the door, smiling giddily as Sam's small fists pounded on the wooden surface. He might get in trouble later, their dad hated it when they teased and fought with each other.

And then came the glimmer from underneath Dean's bed. Curious, he walked over to kneel beside the bed, grabbing a flashlight off of the nightstand and the baseball bat from the corner. The bed was long and thin, covered in white sheets and surrounded by dark wooden posts. His palms pressed against the floor, his shoulders hunching as he looked underneath. A faint, residual glow of white was all that remained. Dean shoved the bat at it.

When Dean showed his father, the man didn't say a word, only placed a shaking palm on top of his boy's head. The light disappeared for the next three years…

_Dean was alone in a clearing, a wide ring of trees standing tall and proud around him. He lay on his back with his hands crossed behind his head, staring up at the clouds, not bothering to wonder how he had gotten there. They were in Nebraska, having moved again for their dad's job. Dad didn't speak much about what he did for a living, but it brought home food, more often than not wrapped in greasy wax paper. _

_He had known for awhile what it was that their dad did when the sun went down; 'hunting' he called it. Hunting monsters that hunted people, saving the world. Just not their mom…_

_He sighed as the clouds drifted past him, closing his eyes gently when something began to rustle behind him. His eyes fluttered open again and he groaned, "Sammy?" he called back without looking, "That you?"_

_Dean wasn't expecting the answer he received. It sounded like a big bird flapping its wings, and Dean, confused, rolled over and looked up. He stared for a minute, and then jumped back, scrambling to his feet, "Son of a bitch, man!"_

_There was a scruffy looking man, maybe a little younger than Dad, standing in front of him now, dressed in a rumpled shirt with a too-big jacket hanging off of his shoulders. His head was cocked over to one side, making bits of his dark hair fall into his face, which looked much like his own when he woke up too early. The stranger's eyes were an odd sort of blue, narrowed into a confused expression as he stared at Dean. Dean frowned and stared right back, crossing his arms in front of him and demanding, "Who're you?"_

_The man said nothing, but Dean continued asking, "Why're you here? What do you want?"_

_Dean stopped talking when the guy looked up, paying rapt attention to the sky above them and nodding soon after. The guy looked back to Dean, opened his mouth to speak and-_

_The loudest, most shrill and piercing noise that Dean had ever heard slammed into his ears, making him gasp and press his palms against them tightly. He groaned as it got progressively louder, dropping to his knees and curling in on himself. His teeth ground against each other as the sound continued, on and on and on._

_And then it stopped. His ears were ringing steadily as he looked back up to where the man once stood. He gasped for breath, wondering what the hell had just happened, when he woke up._

Dean was back in his bed, or what he had designated as his once they had gotten to the motel. He blinked his eyes and stretched his arms as he got up, rubbing at his face as he slid off of the bed. When his fingers touched something warm and sticky, he pulled his hand away.

He frowned. His nose was bleeding, and his dream was nothing more than a blur inside his head…

* * *

_"An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;  
legions of angels can't confine me there.__"_

**- Edward Young**

The knife dug into flesh like it was butter, and a steady stream of blood flowed out. The man on the rack groaned loudly at the pain; he was a tough one, had endured his share of torture for three years as a POW. Dean's mouth twitched upwards. He hadn't had a strong soul in a long time…

Unsatisfied with the knife's effect so far, he placed it back on the tray. He stepped carefully around the space that was considered the floor, the bottom of this Circle. The man's name was not important anymore, now that he was here. All that mattered was his greed. He had stolen from women, from children, and from anyone too weak to fight back against him. He had taken their money and their homes, had chased them away with his gun and taken all that they had owned.

In his group, several men had voiced protest against him, but no one made a move. About a week later, enemy soldiers had piled into the valley where the troops were stationed. Outnumbered, they had fled, but they had left the greedy man behind…

His greed had sent him down to Hell, demons dragging him by his heels to the Fourth Circle and dropping him in its center. The middle was a large crater, filled with avaricious souls like his own. They had been punished by being force to endlessly push weights equal to what they had horded up the crater, unless they wished to be crushed by it. Many had tried to rest the weight upon their backs so as not to be forever straining, but it was not enough and they would lay beneath their weighty sin until the demons tired of their tormented screams and set them upright again. Only to continue pushing…

The man Dean was punishing now had tried to kill himself while in Hell, a suicide, which rightfully belonged to the Harpies of the Seventh Circle. The eventual fallout had sparked a battle between Plutus and the Harpies. Dean had followed Alastair up from the Circle of Violence to settle the matter.

Alastair grinned widely as he dipped his head, "For the matter of Jack," he drawled out, for that was the name of the man in question, "I propose we share him between us, hmm?"

Dean knew Alastiar better than that. Well enough to know that 'sharing' involved Seventh taking one half of the man, and Fourth taking the other. Literally. Plutus snarled, his wolfish features snapping towards the demon in front of him, "I do not _share_," the demon growled, as his greed had no limits and he would not relinquish what belonged to him, "Especially with these feathered wenches."

The Harpies squawked, fluffing the scaly feathers on their forearms, "_Suicide!_" they shrieked, "Ours, ours, ours!" Dean rubbed his hands together, watching as the Harpies flexed and snapped their beaked jaws. He had seen those things in action long enough to make sure that he was well out of their way. Alastair simply smiled…

He didn't know exactly what Alastair had said to convince them, but it had ended up with him torturing the man. And so, here he was, rifling through the pile of instruments on the cart for something that would really give the demons behind him a show. He heard Alastair snickering behind him as he ripped something out of the man's stomach, proudly labeling it as a probable kidney.

And that was when the angel found him…

* * *

_"Gaze not into the abyss, lest the abyss gaze back into you."_

**- Friedrich Nietzsche**

Dean felt Alastair push him down and stand over him, grabbing something wicked off of the cart as he went. The hot ground pulsed angrily beneath his fingers as the very air around them seemed to shake. He chanced a look up before Alastair's growling made his forehead touch the dirt again, and what he saw in those short few seconds expelled all the breath from his body.

The Circle above them caved in, the eternal rains from above screaming its protest as it began to fill in Plutus' crater, and in rushed the brightest creatures that he had ever seen. They landed in the freezing water, exploding like star-bursts when they touched down. The demons that had been flitting above, dropping weights down upon the sinners, suddenly reared back with a unanimous screech and dove for the lights. The creatures themselves rose up, towering over the blackness and wrapping luminescent limbs around the horde.

Plutus howled, long and low as he dug his fanged mouth into one of the offshoots of light. The scream that followed was inhuman. And then Plutus shattered. His wolf-like body cracked, filling up the sockets of his eyes and the gape of his mouth with white before he imploded with the sound of breaking glass and the rush of clattering coins.

Alastiar slashed at one of the lights overhead, and Dean ducked his head down. The lights were tearing through Hell, one demon at a time, and it looked like Alastair was next. Dean found himself being hauled roughly to his feet with Alastair's clawed fingers digging into his naked back. He barely felt it as he was dragged down through the Pit and into the Fifth Circle. Souls screamed harshly as they flailed in the river, tearing at each other like piranhas.

The thin bridge that lead into the Sixth circle and divided the Styx from the sludge of the miserable was filled with demons, all of them charging upwards, brandishing hooked blades and gnashing their fangs. Dean held tight to Alastair as the elder demon pushed and fought his way through the mass of twisted bodies, roughly slamming a few of his own kind into the soul-filled water where the wrathful tore the demons apart with their teeth and nails.

Dean knew where they were going, and he stopped dragging his feet and started running to keep pace with Alastair. They were heading for the demon city of Dis. Built by demons as woeful angels that had fallen from grace, Dis was the epicenter of Hell. Outside of the city was nothing but barren wasteland, the only refuge being within its cold, iron walls. Flaming tombs that encase the heretical souls can be seen even from the river, but Dean had no time to stop and look.

The lights were coming.

* * *

_"It is easier to stay out than to get out."  
_  
**- Mark Twain**

Alastair bypassed the sepulchers and huffed sulfur from his lungs as they approached the city. The demon jerked Dean to himself, pressing his face into the heaving chest of the thing that had owned him for forty years. He went without protest.

Dean's hands latched on to the spiked shoulders, ignoring the blood the poured out of his hands at the touch. The spines along the demon's shoulders lacerated his palms, but he didn't care. He could see the things behind him, and if they had _Alastair_ running scared…

He didn't get anymore of a chance to think before he was in the air, still clinging to the demon as they jumped the city gate. The city, built in a ring that opened straight down to the Seventh Circle in its center, was a massive collaboration of sighs and sinners. Three towers lined the outer walls, and upon each sat a Furie. Thin as death with snake-like skin and wide-set eyes, they looked almost like women. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a real one…

Alastair's feet cracked the stone of the city's floor as he landed. He quickly crushed his back against the wall and turned Dean back around, Dean's back to Alastair's chest, hiding as the peek of light glimmered over the first tower. The Furie there waved her arms furiously, swatting at the offending light until one of the beings slammed into it, sending both Furie and light careening down deeper into the Pit through the center gap. A shrill cry chased after them as they fell, something almost familiar, and Dean looked up.

A flicker of light, roughly shaped like a human, but with tendrils of white splitting out of it at odd intervals hovered above them. Alastair wasn't moving behind him, and Dean wondered if the demon was caught up the the same strange feeling that he was. He wanted to go, and he wanted to stay, but Alastair had a firm grip around his waist, nails slotted evenly into the flesh of his side.

Before Dean noticed, another light had swooped down upon them, grabbing onto Alastair and dragging him up with it and away from Dean. The demon laughed as he went, the bladed object in his hands slicing at the light with a ferocity that Dean hadn't seen in a very long time. It meant that Alastair was matched by the light. And he wasn't happy about it…

Dean watched as the light drew Alastair higher, both of them seeming to shout at the other. Alastair in his high wails, kicking and flailing and entwining his body with the light's. The creature took every hit, every cut, returning each with a swat of its tendrils onto Alastair's face, his back, his legs. This was a fight. This was war.

He turned back to the light in front of him, watching as it wafted closer. Dean breathed it in and choked. He hadn't spoken real words in years, never opened his mouth except to scream. He wasn't surprised that he couldn't do so now…

A long tendril, thicker than the rest with five appendages at its end reached for Dean, looking all too much like a hand. It was so close to his face now that it burned, a startlingly calm heat unlike those of Hell, so cold that it was warm. It contrasted cruelly to the burning inferno winds of Hell. Dean grabbed the hand with his own, expecting to hear the sizzle of his own flesh, and squeezed it tightly. Nothing happened, and the creature stopped moving. Dean applied pressure to the digits of light, using enough force to break a human's hand, but not a sound escaped the thing in front of him.

He growled at it, his instincts from Hell telling him thus, and another limb reached for him, catching him around his shoulder. He frowned, there was nothing vital there, so why? His stomach seized and he gasped when the light trilled loudly, arching the head-like shape atop its shoulders back in victory. Dean struggled then, scraping his nails across the light's nonexistent flesh. He echoed the scream with one of his own as he ascended the city of Dis with the creature clutching his arm, dragging him higher and higher, the other lights following and repeating the leader's battle cry. They went on until the light from above was just as bright as the reflection of the creatures below him.

His black eyes burned, and his body slumped over into submission, feeling something cold run across him. From far away, he heard something, but he remained complacent in the thing's grasp…

_"Righteous man?" a voice snorted, "Not so righteous now, is he, brother?"_

* * *

Author's Notes:

This is the first time this work has ever been posted, despite it dwelling on my computer for years now, and I've always been fond of  
the idea of demon!Dean becoming a thing (I suppose series-wise I've gotten my wish...)

I've taken some heavy inspiration from Dante's Inferno in regards to the inner workings of Hell and its denizens (such as Plutus, the Furies, and the city of Dis from Hell's various Circles).


	2. Ozone and Gasoline

_"A cynic is a man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for a coffin."_

**- H. L. Mencken**

His breath rasped and he choked on dust, his eyes fluttering open to gaze around him. He coughed, ignoring the ache in his chest as he took in… what was this? He couldn't move his arms, he kicked up his legs only to hit something solid. It sounded like wood. Dean rotated his palms to press out against the sides of the box he was somehow in, but he couldn't break it. Where was Alastair? Where was anything?

He grit his teeth and threw his head up against the wood above him, wincing at the strength of the wood. And then he thought harder. What if there was something on top of the wood? Dean growled, the sound making his lungs burn. He knew better than to call for help, it had never gotten him anywhere before. And so he waited. Waited for the torture that he had come to expect every day for the last forty years. But it never came.

Dean was running out of air. Breathing became harder, and he found himself struggling, pounding his weight against the box because he knew something wasn't right. The more he kicked and punched at the wood, the more it gave, splintering just a little. A few specs of something fell through the cracks and Dean paused for a moment, before he croaked out in a sharp hiss. He wasn't in a box. He was in a coffin…

He pounded harder, using every bit of strength that he could to get out. This was something new.

Alastair had never been one for offhanded tortures, didn't like to sit back and watch. He'd rather take his time and participate, draw it out with little shivs and bone needles. Alastair wouldn't just shove Dean into a coffin and _wait_.

Dean shifted inside the wooden box as dirt began to pile into the space…

* * *

_"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep.  
And miles to go before I sleep…"_

**- Robert Frost**

The light burned his eyes when he finally breached the surface, gagging out remnants of dirt that he couldn't help but swallow as he had climbed out of the hole. Dean lay there on his stomach, panting and scraping his nails through the earth, catching them on blades of dead grass. He keep his eyes shut tightly, his forehead resting on cool soil as he mind raced ahead of him.

_'Where am I? Is this Hell?_' he thought, trying to wet his throat with his saliva. It was just so _dry_.

With a grunt, Dean pushed himself up with his hands and sat back on his legs. He let his head fall back on his shoulders as he slowly opened his eyes. It took him several tries to adjust to the sudden burst of light, sunlight he realized. And when his eyes were finally focused and he blinked around, his chest contracted.

He wasn't in Hell anymore.

He couldn't be. Hell didn't look like this, with clear blue skies and soft white clouds and a big freakin' _bright_ sun shining down. It was almost too good to be true…

So it had to be. But then, where were the demons? Dean started looking around, and his breath left him in a rush. He was sitting in the middle of a clearing, a shabbily constructed cross bearing down on the hole he had just clawed his way out from. Every tree that had been surrounding the area was now blown back, each one pressing into the other. Dean could see the roots, tangled masses of dirty tendrils and thick shoots with patches of earth still clinging to them, arching upwards now that the trees had nearly been uprooted.

He made to stand up, wobbling as his legs were so numb, and finally got to his feet. His legs shook, and he could feel the pinpricks of his nerves protesting against him, but he didn't care. Something big had gone down, and whatever it was had somehow resulted in Dean zapping up out of Hell.

He couldn't remember what it might have been, but at the moment, he really didn't care. He was hungry, and thirsty, and he was covered in dirt. He frowned as he started walking towards what remained of the woods, stepping carefully over the fallen trees and heading… whatever direction he was going in…

He had a long way to go…

Dean had found his way to nothing after nearly an hour of searching through the woods. Or maybe it had been longer, how was he to know? He sighed heavily as he padded through the low shrubs, barely noticing how they scraped over his skin. Did he mention that he was naked? Yeah, that was wrong in so many ways. But he hadn't had clothes in Hell, so what did it matter?

Well, if he really was back on earth, he probably needed some.

His feet were poked by needles and the lower branches cut his arms as he went on farther, chasing the light ahead that looked like it could lead to somewhere…

* * *

_"Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe.__"_

**- Voltaire**

Dean eventually found an shady looking convenience store, and as he peered into the window, he saw no one. He snuck in through the back door, prying it open with a shovel that had been resting beside the dumpster just a few feet away. He wedged the bladed end into the door and pressed his weight against it, heaving to force the door open.

When the metal began to give, Dean grabbed the door knob and pulled, the locked portion slipping out of its hole with ease. These people really needed to install a proper lock…

Dean sneaked inside, taking the shovel with him.

The wall were lined with glass cases filled with sodas and water and the occasional beer. The shelves were stocked full of candy bars and crackers, and the ones further toward the back were covered in knickknacks and touristy t-shirts. He went for the fridges first.

The handle was cool against his skin as he pulled the door open and rifled through its contents. There were water bottles of various brand names; who needs brand-name water? Some energy drinks with claw marks running down the front of the can which Dean sidled away from. And, at the very bottom of the shelf, beer. He smiled despite himself and grabbed that instead.

He walked to the counter and set the beer down, then headed back into the isles looking for clothes.

Dean rifled through the assortment of shirts, grabbing one of the few without anything stupid written on it, and shoved it over his head. He pulled this way and that, getting his arm in the neck-hole twice before finally getting it right. He grabbed a pair of baggy jeans off of the rack behind him and tugged those over his hips with a little struggle. They were almost too loose, but he tied them up with some of them fishing line two isles over.

Next, he perused through the food, trying to remember what all of these things tasted like. Chocolate was sweet, but what was sweet? He ripped the silver wrapper off and tore off a chunk of the bar with his teeth. Dean grimaced and spat it back out. It didn't taste good.

He did the same with five more different foods, but there was nothing that he wanted to eat here. He groaned, scratched at his head, and went back for his beer. It wasn't as cold as it had been, but it would do. Dean pulled back the tab and lifted the can to his mouth; he remembered beer…

But he didn't swallow.

He made a deep, gurgling sound in the back of his throat as the beer dripped steadily out of his mouth and onto the floor. Dean wiped his mouth on the sleeve of the shirt, frowning at the rest of the beer. Did _nothing _taste good here?

And then the smell hit him…

* * *

_"The most violent appetites in all creatures are lust and hunger;  
the first is a perpetual call upon them to preserve their kind,  
the latter to preserve themselves.__"_

**- Joseph Addison**

Dean groaned and plugged his nose with his hands as the building around him shook. A high pitched keen echoed throughout the room as it rattled, various things all falling off of the shelves with crashes, thumps, and muffled thuds. His eyes squeezed shut, and he could feel his teeth cutting into his lower lip. The sound of it was so _painful_, but it was nothing at all compared to the scent.

It was cold and bitter, assaulting his nostrils no matter how hard he pressed his hands against them. The thing, whatever it was, smelled bright, like ozone or a mix of sharp chemicals. It made him dizzy, and he dropped to his knees, unable to stand anymore.

Suddenly, the sound died to a lull, and it sounded like an airplane had just passed overhead. The dull roar of it almost unheard for the screeching noise that preceded it.

When it had passed, Dean opened his eyes, still holding his nose for the scent still clinging to the air. The shop was in ruins, every window shattered with their broken remains littered across the floor. The shelves were all toppled, the jars of pickles foods and random edibles lay stickily on the floor in puddles. The glass doors had broken as well, along with any beverages within.

Even the beer cans he had abandoned on the counter had exploded, their contents slowly dribbling down the sides. He frowned as he realized that he was sitting in a pile of it.

Dean growled at it and stood up, walking around behind the counter to the register. He muttered strangled words underneath his breath as he pulled at the drawer. He couldn't, or rather wouldn't, eat any of the things here, because, face it, convenience store food is _never_ good. He figured simply that, if he really was home again for whatever reason, he would need money. Dean only hoped these people were stupid enough to have left some cash in the register overnight…

Yep. They were.

He shoved maybe seventy dollars into his pocket, and left the change. He really didn't need anything jingling in his pockets, making unnecessary noise…

Dean's hand came up to rub at his eyes, and stopped when something glinted to his left. A computer screen monitor, one of those old, chunky things. The precursors to the tiny, flat as a board laptops of today. It was suffering just as badly as the rest of the store. The screen was cracked, but Dean could still see his reflection in it.

His face was dirty, and fuzzy, and he remembered shaving. He might need to do that soon…

His hair was matted, little short knots on the top of his head. Dean rubbed his fingers at them. His lips were chapped to hell, and his eyes were… He frowned as he looked at himself, had his eyes always been like this? He grumbled and thought harder than before. He remembered his brother, but not his name, and another guy, with a perpetual angry face. Bobby. Bobby, and his brother, Sam.

The one thing he didn't remember, and it had been forty years, so he decided that he deserved a break if his brain wasn't one hundred percent up to snuff, was if his eyes had always looked like marbles…

* * *

_"Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads."_

**- Henry David Thoreau**

Eventually, Dean just got pissed off and pushed the computer off of the counter. Who would have noticed any difference?

He huffed, checked that the money was still in his pocket, and walked to the front door. He edged his way around the glass shards, kicking his feet a few times before stepping widely over what remained of the door. The glass in it was much like the windows; all over the floor.

The sun was higher now, and Dean looked around curiously. There were gas pumps in front of him, and a long, barren road beyond that. He thought absently of the Impala, wondering what happened to her. He sighed and scratched at the hair at his nape, swallowing thickly as he started walking.

Dean kept his eyes forward as he went, shifting occasionally upward, and the fear of those creatures still nagging in the back of his mind. He wasn't sure where he was, or where he was going, but he knew that whatever that noise, that _scent_, belonged to wasn't anything he wanted to run into. Dean supposed that as long as he continued walking, he would find someone that knew where he was, but the road was nearly deserted, nothing ahead of him but trees and asphalt.

The sun glared down at him from above, it must have been midday. It must have been well over ninety degrees outside, but he barely even felt it, not a drop of sweat dotted his brow. Maybe he'd gotten used to it, or maybe it was just a side-effect of spending forty years in Hell.

Dean cracked his shoulders and heard a rumbling noise drawing closer from behind him. He turned his head to see a small silver car making its way down the road. There was a woman behind the wheel, young, maybe early thirties, long dark hair. He waved towards her and watched as she drove straight past him. He didn't have time to be upset before she pulled the car off the side of the road, stopping a little too fast and sliding into the dust and making a large cloud of it pile up into the air.

It went up his nose and he snorted softly, his face twisting itself up. His eyes itched as he saw her roll the windows down and call out to him as he walked over, "You need a lift, guy?"

"Just to the nearest town, if you don't mind, sweetheart," he said, his voice sounded rough and sickly, and by the fleeting expression she gave, she'd noticed.

"Sure thing, I can drop you off in Sioux Falls."

The car door unlocked and Dean climbed inside. Bobby lived in Sioux Falls, didn't he? He said a quiet thank you to the woman as she pulled the car back up onto the road. His eyes twitched again, he must have gotten too much dust in them, and he rocked his head back against the seat, staring out the window.

Dean didn't know how, he didn't know why, but he was home, or at least as close to home as he was going to get for the moment.

And he didn't trust it for one goddamn minute…


End file.
